


1932

by RowanRooks (orphan_account)



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Asexual Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Asexual Character, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Behavior, Dark Comedy, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Human Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Humor, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Slow Burn, Some crude language, i think i got blacklisted for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21994627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/RowanRooks
Summary: The 1930s are the for perfect time to nurture any up-and-coming radio host or serial killer alike. Alastor is no exception.Set in New Orleans in 1932, Alastor is living his best life. Broadcaster by day and home chef by night, he's learned that Jumbalaya is best served with a side of human liver and a still beating heart. That is until he brings the wrong meal to his table, a member of the Italian mafia, and ends up biting off more than he can chew.With his latest meal escaping the table and his identity running the risk of being found out, Alastor faces his biggest hunt yet. The streets of New Orleans are his forest and this time, it's his head on the platter.AKAAlastor screws up and now has to fix his mess in Dixieland while balancing his day job, cannibalistic hunger, and learn how to be a decent human being for once along the way. Should be fun.
Relationships: Alastor & Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Husk (Hazbin Hotel), RadioDust
Comments: 40
Kudos: 156





	1. 1 - It Was A Pleasure To Smile

**Author's Note:**

> I might have been blacklisted for the research I did on this one. It was worth it.

It was a pleasure to smile. The tilt of a grin. The gleam of one’s teeth. The curve of one’s lips. Yes, it was a pleasure to smile. And Alastor was pleased.

“Testing, testing,” he muttered, tapping a finger along the curve of the microphone. It crackled in response before settling into a dull static. Alastor’s grin widened.

“ _Hell—ooo_ , New Orleans! It’s a beautiful day here in the city. Well, fellas, this day is yours! Go out there and grab it.” 

Alastor leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on the palm of his hand. “An up and coming trumpeter just released his debut piece. He sure isn’t the most talented of gentlemen, but his music speaks for himself. True passion! I’ll play a lick of it in a moment here. Haha—what a day indeed!” 

Alastor flicked a switch along his panel, flooding the broadcast with the smooth pull of a trumpet fizzling in and out of the static. Humming to himself, Alastor slipped his headphones off his neck, bringing up a hand to adjust his glasses. His fingers then found his bowtie, nimbly uniting it until it hung loosely around his neck. Finally, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves and allowed them to fall limply down his wrist. When he brought his hands up again, the tips of his fingers were speckled with a crusting red. Blood red.

"Oh, dearest me!" His smile didn’t drop in the slightest. "I thought I’d washed these out." 

A reasonable man might grow quite alarmed at the blood stains blanketing their sleeves. Alastor was neither reasonable nor a man—in fact, he was a showman. Which might as well be an entirely different breed all together. The world was his stage, and a little blood on the curtains only enhanced the show as far he was concerned.

Rolling up his sleeves once more, Alastor checked the dials of his broadcast, satisfied that everything was running smoothly. He had debated whether or not to come into work today due to the late night the previous day. 

A young lady, being a fan of Alastor’s podcast, had dared to follow him home last night. Hollering drunkard obscenities and terribly lewd remarks as she went. Alastor ignored had plastered a grit toothed grin upon his cheeks and attempted to ignore her at first. It wasn’t until she ventured upon _touching_ him that Alastor had a change in heart. Her last words were wasted on calling him, "a sweet dish" that she’d be more than happy to taste.

Oh, how the tables had turned.

Now he tentatively touched where she’d grabbed him, gloved hands digging into his shoulder. His smile tightened. 

Behind him, the radio puttered out into static as the song came to end. Alastor straightened in his seat and let go of his shoulder

"That song sure was a riot. What a work of wonder! Truly stupendous!" He continued on, commenting on everything from politics to pop culture. It’s nearly five when he finally signed off, slinging a pinstriped coat over his vest and leaning forward into the microphone.

"Don’t forget to smile, my darlings. You’re never fully dressed without one.”

The radio let out one final exhausted groan and then fell quiet with a quick turn of a knob. A few flakes of blood peeled off of the cuffs of Alastor’s sleeves and collapsed on the desk. He flicked them off, beaming at his reflection in the tint of a dial. 

The fellow looking back at him was grinning.

And he looked marvelous.

×××

"You’re late." 

A gruff voice broke through the darkness as swung open the door to his shared apartment, enveloping the room in a flood of outside light. 

Alastor closed the door behind him. "And you’re in an awful mood today, my fractious friend!"

The man inside took a deep swig of his whisky in response. Husk, a soldier with no war to fight in, who drowned his despair in drink and gambling all before reaching his 30s. If it wasn’t for his indifferent attitude to blood and offer to split the rent, Alastor would find him to be quite useless. Instead, he liked to think of the bartender as just amusing.

Alastor’s smile wavered. "So tell me, HuskerHusker—my pal, whatever promoted you to call me?" He took a step forward, turning around to his look coat and drape it over the back of his chair. "I’m certainly not complaining in the slightest, my dear fellow—no siree. It’s just, I highly doubt this is social. In fact! I’d reckon by the stench of alcohol clogging up the kitchen and that dreadful scowl stitched into your lips, that you are awfully upset with me. Of what, I can’t seem to fathom. Smile, Husk! You’d look better with one—"

The whistle of metal cut him off as a knife embedded itself in the wall a few inches from the tip of Alastor’s nose.

Alastor’s raised an eyebrow. "Is that my cleaver?" He sighed as he flicked the handle, pushing it further into the flowery wallpaper. "Well that’s rather rude."

 _”Will you shut up!"_ Husk snapped.

Alastor did.

 _"That,"_ Husk said, gesturing vividly at the knife currently attempting to be yanked free by Alastor. "That was left out in the open last night. Dripping with blood and staining the countertops for anyone to walk in on."

“Listen. I don’t care what you do in your free time. Make orphans into popsicles for all I care," Husk said. 

Then he shoved his chair aside and wrapped his fingers around Alastor’s vest, tugging the radio host up to the tips of his toes and—much to Alastor’s dismay—completely wrinkling the red fabric.

Husk tightened his grip on the vest, his breath hot and reeking eight the bitter stench of drink. "But you will not bring me down with you."

Before Husk could let go, Alastor reached back and wrenched the cleaver from its hold, nestling it under the bob of Husk’s Adam’s apple. 

Husk froze. This was not their first argument and it certainly would not be their last, but never had Husk dared to lay a hand on his roommate before. And from the flicker of panic that flashed behind his drunken eyes, it wasn’t something he would attempt again.

The handle of the knife was cold in Alastor’s hands, it was even colder pressed against Husk’s throat. He finds himself grinning once more, "Please keep your hands off me. Alright, Husker?”

Husk grunted out a ‘yes’, hands tentatively tracing the line along his neck where a cleaver had been just moments before.

"Someday you’ll be the death of me, Al," Husk grumbled, sinking back into his seat.

A bout of laughter bursted from Alastor’s chest. "Ha! And I reckon you’d make a fine gumbo!"

Husk busied himself with draining his glass to keep himself from responding. 

"All this talk of food has me ravished!" Alastor slung his arm around Husk’s shoulders, ignoring the groan of protest as he did so. "What do you say, my ol’ Husker? Fancy a bite of whatever our dear New Orelans has to offer?"

Husk looked up from his now empty glass. "Do I get a say on the restaurant?”

" _HA!_ No."

×××

Café du Bonheur was a cozy building, squeezed between the looming towers of the New Orleans. Brick walls lined with wooden beams supported the ceiling and sheltered those inside from the heat—and at night, from the town’s unrelenting humidity. Packaged pastries heavily drizzled with powdered sugar sat neatly displayed behind glass for the eyes of greedy customers. The air stank of bitter caffeine and over-priced beignets.

And Alastor loved it.

"I thought you said you were hungry," Husk said, taking a bite of his meal from across the table.

"I am."

Husk scoffed. "You ordered a black coffee and haven’t touched the menu since."

The corners of Alastor’s mouth quirked up. “How odd… I am not in the mood for anything on this menu.”

" _Then why did you choose to eat here?_ "

Alastor chose to sip of his coffee instead of provide him with an answer. Husk muttered something about cannibals and picky eaters under his breath that Alastor pretended not to catch. 

Truth be told, Alastor hadn’t the foggiest what prompted him to pick such a place. Perhaps it was the lull of jazz bouncing off the streets from outside the patio or the lively chatter bubbling inside the cafe. People could be so amusing, so interesting, _rather delicious_ , but overall pleasing to watch. 

It was a pleasure to be around them.

“Alastor—Al!” Husk waved to get his attention. Grunting in approval when Alastor finally blinked and looked up. “I was saying it was getting late, and unlike you, I have no plans of getting mugged.”

“My dear Husk! However did you fathom such a fanciful tale?”

Husk slipped back into a scowl that Alastor had begun to think of as his natural face. “You talk about them all the time on your podcast.”

“Ah, right.” Alastor paused thoughtfully before taking another sip of coffee. “Well, don’t you worry. Careful is my middle name. Either way, they wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“I was rooting for the mugger.”

Alastor’s brows knitted, but he kept a smile slapped across his lips. “You go on and shake a leg. I’ll catch right up.”

Husk didn’t wait for Alastor to change his mind. In a moment, he’d slapped a few bills on the table, placed his top hat back over his mane of hair and slammed the cafe door behind him. The cheerful ring of a bell echoed his exit. 

_It is getting late,_ Alastor thought, finishing off the rest of his drink. _I should be going._ He paid for his coffee and buttoned up his coat. 

The outside air was a slap to the face. Sticking to his skin like gum to a shoe as the trill of trumpets and trombones clashed in the night. The radio host whistled along with them under his breath which each step. He continued even as the jazz band had faded to background noise and eventually nothing but the buzz of crickets and steady thump of his shoes against the pavement filled the city streets. The sun had long since made its trip beneath the horizon, now only the occasional streetlight offered enough light for Alastor to see where he was heading. Even the houses looked darker here, but it might as well have another trick of poor lighting. Though the streets lacked the usual rumble of conversation, it was not completely lacking in pedestrians. Bystanders draped in outlandish coats and high stockings littered the sidewalk, some leaned against the bricks the houses behind them, bringing a cigar to their lips. Others spoke in hushed voices to the passerby, tripping over their own tongues to get their words out. 

Growing increasingly uncomfortable, Alastor slowed his pace. He could turn back now, and take the long way around. But heaven knows exactly how long that would take. By the time he got back, Husk might’ve already been asleep and not even he had plans to wake the man over something as drivel as cooking his dinner. He rammed the heel of his feet into the pavement and weighed his options, shifting from foot to foot while keeping a careful eye on those flocking the sidewalk. What interesting people they were. How amusing.

“Hey there, handsome.”

Alastor whipped around, grinning at the stranger in front of him. He was on the younger side, around Alastor’s own age, if slightly taller. An untamed head of hair of dark brown bleeding into a bleached blonde tumbled to the tips of his shoulders, shrouded in a loud pink shawl of fur that left his chest bare to the tip base of his navel. 

Alastor’s mouth dried and he deeply regretted leaving his rifle at home. Nevertheless, he plasters a smile onto his cheeks and sticks out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to be meeting you, my effeminate fellow.” 

If this offends the stranger, he doesn’t show it. Instead, the tips of his lips curve up in a smile that matches Alastor’s own. “What are you doing in this part of town?”

“It just so happens, my dear, that I live a few blocks down. Haha! What a small world we live in!” Alastor chuckled to himself. “I was just enjoying a fresh bout of evening air before retiring to my bed for the rest of the night.”

The stranger considered him for a moment. He then took a whiff of his cigarette and let the smoke spill from his lips, ghosting along the cut of Alastor’s jaw and making his eyes water. He refused to drop his smile.

“Why don’t you retire to my bed instead?”

_Oh, dear._

A flush crept up Alastor’s face as he politely turned down the offer, itching for his cleaver now more than ever. “I best get going…”

“Angelo,” the stranger cut in. 

“Yes, Angelo, of course.” Alastor sucked in a breath. Then, immediately regretted it after his lungs tightened with Angelo’s smoke. “Have a splendid evening!”

Alastor turned to go. A hand lashed out and trapped his wrist, jolting him to a stop.

 _”Wait!”_ Angelo called out, not dropping Alastor’s wrist. “Just give me a shot, baby. You won’t regret it.”

 _No,_ Alastor thought to himself. He wove his fingers around Angelo’s thumb, and wrenched them from his wrist, earning a startled yelp from the other. Angelo’s eyes leapt wide in a burst of panic, he opened his mouth to scream. Alastor, deeply wishing he’d worn gloves today, wrapped his hand around Angelo’s mouth and pinched his nose closed. _But you will._

It didn’t take long for the light to drain from his eyes nor for him to melt limply into Alastor’s arms, head lolled back upon his shoulder and eyelids fluttered shut. He was still breathing after Alastor released his nose and removed his hand from his lips, promptly wiping them on his pant leg. It was better for him to be unconscious than dead when out in the open like this… out in the open… out in the… the blood drained from Alastor’s face. It wasn’t the deed that bothered him so much as the manner he went about it. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

Alastor pushed his glasses further up his nose, then, after checking for onlookers, he tossed Angelo’s limp hand over his shoulder and tucked his own arm beneath the man’s armpit, supporting his weight. It was awkward, most definitely, but neither of them were spared a second glance as Alastor half carried and half dragged Angelo back to his house. To onlookers, they looked like no more than a good friend carrying his drunken pal home. 

But Alastor didn’t have friends. And he most certainly was anything but _good_.

When Alastor finally did reach his house, his hair was disheveled, his bones ached, and worst of all—it was past nine and he’d yet to have a morsel of dinner. Alastor adjusted his grip on Angelo, letting him droop slightly to allow Alastor to knock on the door. It be impolite to pound or knock again so Alastor simply waited for Husk to finally get off his ass and open the door.

With a groan, the door did swing open, reveal an incredibly disgruntled Husk. His arms firmly crossed upon his chest and his feet planted wide enough that one might think they had a restraining order.

Alastor swallowed and grinned hesitantly at the scowling face across from him. "Good evening, Husk! Mind lending your pal here a hand?"

Husk’s eyes landed on the man currently collapsed at Alastor’s side. Unfazed, he looked back up and rested his hand on the doorway.

"I didn’t know you were into men," Husk said bluntly, mouth split into a yawn. "I thought you hated sex and shit."

Alastor promptly dropped Angelo, who consequently crashed at his feet. “I find it revolting! You have the wrong idea, pally. I simply knocked this fine gentleman out, brought him here, and plan to chop him up and serve him piping hot jambalaya."

"Oh." Husk blinked. "At least you’re not bringing hookers home. Now _that_ would mess me up."

Alastor decided to leave out the fact that the man currently presiding by his feet was most definitely a hooker.

"Not a chance!" Alastor grabbed one of Angelo’s limbs, yanking the unconscious man to his feet. "Be a dear, Husker, and help me bring this strapping hunk of meat inside?"

At this, Husk growled, a low rumble erupting in his throat and slipping past his gritted teeth. "Not happening, Al. I told you I wasn’t going down for your hunger."

"Don’t be such a nudnik! It’s unbecoming of a man like you," Alastor said, still grinning wildly as he dragged Angelo’s limp form through the doorway. "If you’re not gonna pick him up, at least cover up the table—it’s the least you can do for a friend in need."

Husk grunted, "We’re not friends." But he began unpacking the tarps from the cabinet anyway. He laid them across the table just as Alastor hoisted the hooker onto its surface.

"Splendid!" Alastor clapped his hands together, beaming at the limp body sprawled across the table. "Now wherever did you out my cutlery?" 

“You better wash them afterwords," Husk huffed, nodding to the farthest drawer below the countertops. "I use them just as much as you. But I don’t have any intention of tasting feet like you do."

"Nonsense!" Alastor ran his finger along his collection of knives, finally settling on a smaller gut hook knife normally reserved for hunting. "I cut the feet off! It’s like preparing a chicken."

"You’re one twisted guy, Al."

“And you’re a drunk! _Haha!_ What a hilarious pair the two of us make!”

Husk ran a hand over his mouth, self-consciously wiping off the stray droplets of whisky. "Just try not to make a mess."

"I am not an animal, my dear."

The knife’s blade sliced through the air as Alastor twirled it absentmindedly, examining the meat laid out before him. He traced the curved tip of the knife over his meal’s lewdly exposed navel to the crook right beneath its chin. Another man might find Angelo to be quiet appealing. Alastor found him to be mouthwatering. Not sexually of course—oh goodness no. He was the _beef bourguignon_ to his silver platter. The Chardonnay to his empty glass. And Alastor was absolutely parched.

"Are you gonna gut him or not?” Husk asked, breaking Alastor’s focus.

"Yes, I am going to gut _it_.” Alastor’s smile tightened. "Preparing a dish shouldn’t be rushed, my darling clown of a companion. It utterly ruins the taste!"

Husk didn’t reply, resorting to cussing profoundly and eyeing the table behind the thick bushes of his brows. 

Satisfied that he would not be interrupted again, Alastor adjusted his grip on the gut hook knife, positioning it beneath the sharp cut of Angelo’s jaw. Beads of red trickled along the knife’s tip as it’s pressed further down, parting his skin.

Angelo woke without warning. 

His jaw was slack and his limbs were weighed down with the burden of sleep but his eyes were wide and alert and spoke of what Alastor could only describe as unbridled terror.

Angelo scampered back; his hand flew to his neck to staunch the flow of blood currently dribbling down his chest and along Alastor’s own fingertips.

Like a trapped animal, his eyes wide and frantic, the pink fur of his jacket bristled, cheeks flushed from both panic and confusion, he sized up his captors. From Alastor, to Husk, to Alastor again, and finally landing on the knife in Alastor’s hands. 

Angelo’s chest rose and fell at a quickened pace to the same beat as his throbbing veins. 

_Up,_ his reached for the knife in Alastor’s hand, slashing wildly at the air. 

_Down,_ he pulled himself to the back of the table, knuckled whitened around the hunt of the knife. 

_Up. Down. Up. Down._

A scream wormed its way out of Angelo’s lungs.

Then, Husk began to shout. 

They shouted and screamed and swore at each other until their throats tangled together and rattled the walls around them. 

To both Husk and Angelo’s surprise, Alastor began to laugh. 

Not the cheery laughter found among the streets of his beloved New Orleans, bouncing off the walls like bells.

No, his laughter sounded like a pile of dishes breaking. It shut them up fast. 

Only after Alastor’s shoulders had stopped shaking from utter giddiness and after he finished wiping the cheerful tears for the corners of his eyes did Angelo find the courage to speak.

“Are you going to kill me?” He asked. His voice wobbled slightly, tainted with a false bravado that sickened his tongue.

At that, Alastor erupted in another fit of giggles. Husk scowl deepened into a frown while Angel let out a relieved sigh, allowing his grip on the knife to slacken while still keeping pressure on the gash on his neck.

“No, no, my dear,” Alastor said, regaining his composure. “I am going to _eat_ you.”

Angelo yelped, his teeth flashing as he swiped carelessly at the air. Alastor knocked the weapon from his hand without a second thought. 

“Come on, Smiles! You don’t gotta kill me.” Angelo raised his hands in surrender. “I can be useful! Like…” his voice trailed off, struggling to come up with an example. “Like… I can…I can suck your—“

“No! No, thank you! I’m quite alright” Alastor flashed him a strained smile while pinching the bridge of his nose, warding off the beginning of a headache. “This is why I prefer to shoot my prey before cooking them.”

“I thought he was dead!” Husk growled. He had kicked his chair aside, preoccupied with restraining a withering Angelo to the table. “Now he’s seen both of us. God damn it, Al, I knew I shouldn’t have gone along with you. Now we’re both dead meat.”

“The only meat here is currently trapped beneath you.” Alastor traded the gut hook knife for his preferred cleaver. “If you keep causing such a fuss, darling, you might join him in the oven. Ha! What an exciting twist that would be!”

Husk dropped his hold on Angelo. His hand flew to the gun tucked into his waistband, pressing it against Alastor’s forehead. “Keep talking like that and I’ll blow your brains out right now, Alastor.”

Alastor gingerly tapped the edge of his cleaver to the gun’s barrel. “You never cease to entertain me, Husker. Like a character right out of a storybook! Simply fascinating!”

Husk tightened his grasp, pressing hard enough that Alastor tripped over his own feet to heed the gun’s direction. “Don’t test me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!” 

An unsettling silence blanketed the room as the two stare each other down. Husk’s guttural snarl and Alastor’s wild grin. Complete silence save for the jarring creak and slam of wood.

Alastor ran his tongue over his teeth, his smile deepened. "Oh, my dearest Husker... did you forget to lock the door?"

The gun clattered to the floor with dull _thud_. 

“Shit. Shit. _Shit!_ ” Husk shoved Alastor aside, wrenching the door back open as the pink shawl of Angelo disappeared around the corner. “God damn it!” 

“Let’s leave God out of this.” Alastor rolled up his sleeves as smoothed out the folds of his vest. “He can’t have gone far.”

Husk whipped around and jammed his finger into Alastor’s chest. “This is your fault! You psychopathic, narrcistic, son of a—"

Alastor caught Husk’s wrist and pinned it to his back. “Please refrain from touching me.”

Wincing, Husk wrenched his arm free, glaring down at the radio host. "We’re wasting time."

"I’ll have you know my mother was a lovely woman," Alastor said, heading to the closet in the back of the room. He threw the closet door open and unhooked an elegant wooden rifle from its holster. "Patience is essential, my dear. All great hunters know that."

"So what?" Husk crossed his arms. "We gonna shoot him down or somethin’?"

"The stage is set, my friend. The stakes are high," Alastor said, feeding the rounds into the rifle’s breech. They fell into place with a satisfying _click_. "The streets are our forest and our prey is on the run."

Alastor cocked his rifle, grinning madly at the ill lit street.

“It’s a pleasure to hunt.”


	2. 2 - Big City, Small World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fancy meeting you here?” Angelo flashed his teeth in a strained smile. It was quick to slip into a grimace. 
> 
> Alastor, on the other hand, had no trouble keeping a wild grin slapped across his cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart! It’s a big city but a small world.” 
> 
> Angelo sneered, blowing the matted strains of hair from his heavily shadowed eyes. “Bet yours is pretty big too.”
> 
> _“My what?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to go through and manually count how many shots Husk took in this chapter. No regerts. That man is drunk. Happy New Year's Eve.

"I’m gonna skin that knife swinging bag of sex jokes and then stuff his furred shawl down your throat for safe keeping."

A slew of colorful curses slipped through Husk’s teeth as he let another punch fly, bruising his knuckles against the merciless metal of a nearby streetlight.

" _Ha!_ Take a look at all that untamed, prickly hot fury! I sure am glad I’m not a lamppost right about now." Alastor’s lips peeled back into a good-natured grin. "One might say you really _punched_ its lights out!"

If looks could kill, Alastor would be six feet under. But Husk settled for shaking out his bruised hand and greeting his roommate with a rather rude finger. 

"Turn that frown upside down, Husker—it’s only been half an hour! Our pearly pink prey is somewhere around here," Alastor said, gesturing with open arms to the run down alley ways and uprooted sidewalks surrounding them. “We just need to look! Half the fun to any successful hunt is the chase."

Husk’s bushed brow knit together. "No part of this is meant to be _fun_ , Alastor. We’re talking about murder—not throwing a birthday party."

“Au contraire, my fine fellow! Some would argue they are too of the same: death and birth that is. Two sides of the same coin." Alastor pat down his coat, palms settling on the outline of his rifle tucked inside. "Why _shouldn’t_ we enjoy both?"

"This isn’t one of your twisted podcasts. This is real," Husk said. "When we’re locked up and tossed in the big house, that’ll be real to. So go find your late night snack and put a bullet in his head." 

"Well that _is_ the plan, darling.”

Husk drew his lips back into a snarl and he went back to beating the streetlight.

"Now I’ll go on and take this stretch of ominous alleyways while you head back and get a nice bit of shuteye. My mother always said a good night’s sleep makes a good day, and I take that lesson to heart." Alastor gave Husk a friendly slap on the back and buttoned up his cuffs. "I’ll be back in the bat of an eye!"

Husk frowned. He threaded his fingers through his mane of salt and pepper hair, considering Alastor’s offer. Then, with a gruff nod, he thrust his hands back into his pockets and left.

It was better this way. Alastor worked better alone. Alastor _liked_ to work alone. He reminded himself this as he moseyed down the sidewalk, whistling a tune as he went. Though the streetlights were fewer here, Alastor found that he didn’t mind the darkness. Never had. In fact, he welcomed it. Night was a blessing to any predator. She draped her blanket over their backs and hid them from the wary eyes of their prey. Even now, she didn’t let him down. Alastor moved quietly and quickly, stifling his whistle behind a row of grinning teeth. 

_There._

Just behind a row of trashcans, hastily knocked down, lay a trail of pink fur. Alastor wrinkled his nose at the horrid smell.

Angelo had yet to see him. His head slumped in his hands, his shoulders bare from where his furred shawl had slipped, his gangly legs were the only line of defense between his arms and the hardened dirt below. 

As not to spook him, Alastor moved slowly, as if trudging through mud. Carefully, his hands slipped inside his pinstriped coat, wrapping around the butt of his rifle. He hoisted it up and angled it at his prey’s ruffled mop of bleached hair. 

Angelo raised his head.

_Click._

It happened fast.

Angelo threw himself to the ground as a bullet tore through the wall were his head had been but seconds before. The rifle smacked into the trashcans, kicked aside by Alastor lurching forward, steak knife in hand. A string of cusses vile enough to put Husk to shame were spat from Angelo’s lips as Alastor pinned him to the alley’s wall, knife violently prodding his throat. 

Alastor could feel Angelo’s heart. Rattling his chest and threatening to burst from his ribs. He reminded him of the rabbits he used to catch as a boy. Their hearts beat fast as well. They all did right before he skinned them up and tossed them into the fire. 

“Fancy meeting you here?” Angelo flashed his teeth in a strained smile. It was quick to slip into a grimace. 

Alastor, on the other hand, had no trouble keeping a wild grin slapped across his cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart! It’s a big city but a small world.” 

Angelo sneered, blowing the matted strains of hair from his heavily shadowed eyes. “Bet yours is pretty big too.”

 _“My what?”_

_“Jesus!_ It’s like I’m flirting with a brick wall!” He groaned, eyes cast heavenward. Alastor noted the gleam of gold as Angelo set his teeth back into a pained smile. “If I’m dyin’ then let me do it in fuzzy handcuffs and a chastity belt."

Not entirely sure how to respond to that, Alastor rammed the steak knife into the hooker’s exposed shoulder.

A twisted scream wrenched itself from Angelo’s puckered lips, jerking his head from side to side in anguish, tears swarming his dark eyes. _”Harder, Daddy!”_

Alastor’s brow snapped together in confusion. “I’m not your dad.”

It’s a mere moment of hesitation. But it’s enough.

Angelo wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sneak knife and ripped it from his shoulder with a cry of pain. He slammed the blade into the hand pinning him in place. 

The pain had an unpleasant warmth to it. Beginning at his palm and then racing along his arm. There was nausea as well, spilling over his guts and tipping him off balance. Alastor lost his grip, fumbling aimlessly as his forearm braced against the wall became his only support. And then, he lost that too.

In the corner of his eye, Alastor spotted Angelo ducking around the corner, his furred shawl forgotten, and now ran with only a pair of women’s panties and the high boots on his feet. Alastor could chase after him. He’s suffered worse than an impaled hand in the past. But he won’t. Not _yet_.

Alastor brought a hand to his mouth. Yes, he was still smiling. _Good_. Granted, it was only supported by grinding his teeth and truly resembled a grimace more than anything else. But he was still smiling, and that’s what mattered.

Angelo is long gone by the time Alastor finally dusted himself off, scooped up the hooker’s abandoned shawl, and shouldered his rifle. The walk home felt far longer than the walk there. He hummed softly while easing past the mesh of houses. Alastor wisely chose to keep his hands out of his pockets and risk ruining his pants seeing as one palm remained a pin cushion for a rather bloody steak knife. 

Husk was sitting at the table when Alastor arrived home. There was no friendly greeting or words wasted between the two as Alastor set the shawl neatly upon the kitchen table and went to hook the rifle back in the closet.

“Is it done?”

Alastor met Husk’s expectant gaze with a wide grin. “When you say done, what do you mean? Be specific, deary.” 

Husk’s brewing anger showed itself in bulging veins and darkened blotches splattered across the man’s olive skin. _“Alastor, I swear, I am going to—”_

Alastor cut him off, his voice quickening. “Now do you mean done as in I drilled the poor sop? _Or_ done as in I am done for the day? Because the latter, darling, could not be more true!”

He spread out his arms to punctate his point, wincing at the spasm of pain caused by his sudden movement. Husk raised his fists, knocking one of his empty bottles aside. Then, his eyes landed on Alastor’s hand. He frowned.

“Is that a knife?”

Alastor blinked. “Well… yes. Yes, it is.”

“Huh.” Without another word, Husk shoved the table out of his way and walked to the kitchen counters. There he grabbed a roll of paper towels, running a few of them under water before tossing it at Alastor’s chest.

Alastor was taken aback at the gesture. “Why, my darling Husk. You shouldn’t have!”

Husk grunted and flipped him off. “Just staunch the flow already. You’re dripping all over my floorboards and making a mess.”

“We _are_ dealing with blood,” Alastor said, attempting to bite back a yell as he yanked the knife free from his palm. “But I’ll certainly make sure to keep a careful eye on your grand old floorboards. That’s a promise! Yes, indeed. And I am not one to break them.”

“Hmph.” Husk leaned against the counters, watching as Alastor finished wiping off his hand only for it to begin bleeding once more. “So what happened?”

“Pardon?” Alastor tilted his head, the corners of his mouth quirked upward. His attention was quickly jerked away as another gush of blood erupted form his hand and splattered both the bottom half of his face and a good portion of Husk’s dear floorboards. 

_“Jesus, Al,”_ Husk grimaced and reached for a pack of bandages under the sink. “Just let me.”

Hesitantly, Alastor walked over to him, clutching his wounded hand warily. He stood to the side of Husk with a wavering smile. 

Husk raised a thick eyebrow, unamused. “I’m gonna need your hand.”

Alastor stuck his arm out, choking down the nausea currently boiling in his stomach, and masking it up with a full grin. “Why of course, sweetheart! Not too rough, now, dear! _Haha!_ Who knows? I might just bite!”

He hated this. He hated feeling like this. Feeling… _vulnerable._

Somehow the drag of skin was worse than the drag of a blade.

He pulled his lips higher up.

Calloused and grimy as they are, Husk’s hands were surprisingly gentle. Almost thoughtful as they cleaned out the open wound and wound the bandages around his palm. Alastor felt sick.

“Alright. Now that you’ve had your fun,” Husk said, setting the roll aside. “Mind telling me what the hell happened out there?”

Alastor examined his hand, flexing his fingers and immediately regretting it. “I ran into our dear Hooker friend and gave him the time of day. He repaid the favor by giving me this darling to remember him by.” Alastor gestured to his bandaged hand.

Husk’s frown deepened, sending his forehead into a stressed ladder of lines. “But… you had him?” 

“Yes, I had him! What do you mistake me for? _You?_ ” A chuckle lurched itself from Alastor’s smugly grinning lips. “No, I caught him.”

“Then why didn’t you kill him dead while you had the chance?”

Alastor laughed as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because I like the chase!” He lowered his voice at Husk’s glowering. “Dare I say I got greedy and wanted to savor those splendidly sweet moments leading up to a kill. It was all in good fun. As they say, no harm no foul!”

_“He just stabbed you!”_

Alastor glanced down at his palm wistfully. “And I didn’t even expect it. How hilarious!”

Husk looked as though he might finish the job for Angelo right then and there. But he restrained himself and instead reached for a bottle of vodka to satisfy his hands.

“He’s long gone now,” Husk said, popping the cap up and taking a long drink straight from the bottle’s neck. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand causing Alastor to squirm at the sickening thought of exactly _where_ those hands that had touched him had been. “Got any ideas swimmin’ around in that twisted head of yours on how to find him?” 

Alastor brightened. “Why, yes, actually! I’m glad you asked.” Much to Husk’s loud protest, Alastor grabbed the vodka bottle, wiped off the top, and poured himself a glass. “We know that our flirtatious fellow is a prostitute. Meaning—he has a pimp.”

Husk watched the vodka bottle mournfully from where it sat at Alastor’s elbow. “So… what your sayin is… find the pimp. Find the prostitute?”

“Splendid work!” Alastor slid the bottle across the table into Husk’s open hand. “I just knew there had to be some form of intelligence hidden in that pitifully petite brain of yours!” 

A low growl rumbled in Husk’s throat. He washed it down with a shot of the drink. “That’s great and all. But where we gonna find a pimp in New Orleans?”

“That, my friend,” said Alastor, taking the bottle back. “Is where you come in.”

_“Me?”_

“Why, yes, _you!_ Don’t sell yourself so short, darling.” 

“Wha—no! _Jesus,_ hand me the vodka.” Husk rubbed his head as if warding off a very bright light. “What I mean is: _why_ do you need me?”

“I wouldn’t say I _need_ you for anything. I’m perfectly competent on my own. I just find you amusing. You’re like one of those little mutts that the dames seem to love. _Ha!_ Though I can’t understand why—dogs are such terribly dreadful creatures.” 

Husk took another shot of vodka, slamming the empty glass onto the table. “Get to the point.”

Alastor straightened his bowtie, leaning forward in his seat. “You gamble. And where there are gamblers—as terribly sexist as it is—there are men. And where there are men, there are prostitutes.”

“Where there are prostitutes there are pimps,” Husk finished. His expression hardened. “I don’t like this.”

Alastor waved him off with his good hand. “All you have to do is find the place and get me in. Then you can go along on your merry way and I’ll do the rest. Everbody is a winner! That is, except for our darling, Angelo.” He made a slicing gesture across his neck before bursting out into a wild fit of giggles.

Husk wrapped a meaty hand around his vodka bottle, debating whether or not to pour himself a third shot. He did.

“Al, after this is all over. After we shoot that bastard, I’m out.” Husk said, rolling the shot glass between his fingers. “You don’t ring me. You don’t wave to me on the street. You don’t _know_ me. I’ll keep my mouth shut as long as you keep yours. Do you hear me? I’m done.”

“Clear as day, my dear.” Alastor’s smile softened. “As clear as day.”

Husk nodded. He threw his head back and downed the shot without a flicker of hesitance.

The empty glass shattered on the table. 

×××

"Husker, when you said this despicable place was ‘Louisiana’s Capital of Vices’ I expected to see the slum of the world downing their hooch and making delightfully entertaining fools of themselves. But _this?"_ Alastor pointed to the run down warehouse in front of them with its boarded up windows and chipped bricks giving way to dust. "Well, this is just dreadfully boring."

"All my buddies told me that this was the place to go," Husk said. He glanced up from the wrinkled paper in his hands and scoffed. "Says it’s called _Pentagram City_. That sounds good enough to me."

With his function hand, Alastor snatched the paper from Husk’s fingertips and read over it once more. "What do you know? Looks like you were right! _Haha!_ Whoever would have thought it?"

Husk took the paper back with a grumble. He tucked it back into pocket right beneath his red cummerbund. They had been told to wear formal attire, so naturally, Husk slapped on a bow tie redder than Alastor’s and walked out the door with that _ridiculous_ top hat.

Alastor had sided with his normal maroon vest and a pair of white gloves to hide the bandages underneath.

"Shall we?" Alastor’s mouth curled up into a fond smile. 

Without waiting for Husk’s response, he headed for the barren doors at the warehouse’s entrance. The muted rumble of a bass and trill of a trumpet echoed behind them.

A man stood outside the doors, watching unfazed as they approached. His burly arms folded across his chest with the gleaming gulf of a gun strapped into his belt. 

Alastor had left his rifle at home, seeing as it would cause quite a stir to bring such a firearm such as that inside. Instead, he’d settled for a small kitchen knife tucked in the inner pocket of his coat for safekeeping.

"How do you do, my fine fellow, this excellent evening?" Alastor stretched out his good hand to shake. The bouncer ignored him. 

"Not talkative this night? That’s no problem at all!" Alastor gave him a reassuring slap on the shoulder. 

The bouncer was not impressed. Alastor paid him no mind as he surveyed his surroundings, looking for something— _anything_ —to get him inside. His eyes landed on Husk’s top hat.

Beaming, Alastor slung his arm around Husk’s shoulder, pulling the man close with a surprised grunt. 

"This dapper darling is the best magic man New Orleans has seen!" Alastor grinned, his voice ringing of the same showmanship as his broadcasts. To his right, Husk looked just as confused as the bouncer.

Alastor continued on. "He’s been called here tonight to _wow_ the lovely ladies and gentlemen inside with wonders unknown to the natural world!"

Just beginning to catch on, Husk nodded along, unfolding his arms and straightening up. 

The man in front of them scratched his head, shifting from foot to foot with uncertainty. His voice was laced with hesitance. "I... I was never told that a magician was coming in today

"Why, my belligerent bouncer!" Alastor planted a hand over his heart, in mock agony. "You dare starve the good people of...er... _Pentagram City_ from the finest entertainment New Orleans has to offer?"

The bouncer visibly paled. "No, sir!"

"Stupendous!" Alastor clapped his hands together and let go of Husk. "Open the doors."

Not needing to be told twice, the bouncer does exactly that, regarding Husk with a certain awe as they walked by.

The moment they step inside, they’re greeted with the thick scent of cigar smoke and alcohol. With a small chuckle, Alastor immediately thought of Husk. _Pentagram City_ truly was the perfect place for scrum like him. 

Fur rugs lined the floorboards and tangled around the legs of stools and tables occupied by gamblers and drunks alike. At the center of the room a petite lady with a dolled up face sang into the microphone, her form tightly fitted into a sweeping blue gown against her dark skin that exaggerated her chest.

A gust of hot air tickled Alastor’s ear as Husk leaned down to whisper, "I am going to kill you the moment we step outside."

Alastor grabbed his chin and shoved his head away with a good natured laugh. "My dear—I did you a favor! You have always said you loved magic. Seize the opportunity and make this nest of sins into your stage!"

"I said I _liked_ magic. Not that I was any good at it," Husk hissed. 

Alastor paused, then shrugged him off. “Oh, dearie. Looks like you’ll have to improvise."

Husk opened his mouth to argue but promptly closed it as a young woman, strawberry blonde curls rolled up to the nape of her neck, approached them with a wild smile.

"Evening, fellas!" She beamed. 

Her face was flushed from running over, dusted with freckles that ran from her nose to the top of her exposed shoulders. It was odd to see a woman of the time without layer upon layer cloaking their upper half. Alastor had to stop him self from displaying his unease. 

“I’ll take your coats," she said as Alastor slipped off his striped suit jacket. When Husk moved to remove his, she held up a hand, stopping him. “Oh, not you, silly!“

At Husk’s clear confusion, she explained, “Henry, the big man at the door, said one of you was a magician! And a magician needs his hat and coat.”

Husk said nothing. He simply nodded slowly and returned his top hat to his head. 

“Now then! My name is Cherri. But you can call me whatever you’d like.” She quickly added with a soft laugh, “And for two dollars every fifteen minutes you can _do_ whatever you’d like—”

“Goodness me!” Alastor waved his hands frantically to cut her off. “I’ll have to politely decline, sweetheart. We both will.”

Husk looked less than pleased at Alastor assumption.

“Oh?” Cherri pouted, batting her thick eyelashes. She gave the two of them a once over before brightening up again. “You two must _that_ way. Don’t you worry now, we have a few escorts more suited to your kind of tastes.”

“You got it all wrong, little lady. He and I aren’t ga—” 

Alastor slapped his gloved hand over Husk’s mouth, wincing at the jolt of pain in sparked along his arm. “Splendid! I believe I speak for both of us when I say we are simply _enthralled_ to meet some of your fine working boys.”

Cherri wrinkled her nose at the formality, but was quick to stick a smile back onto her lips and point to the back of the warehouse. “You’ll find people more to your liking down there.”

“You’re a doll, dear! I couldn’t thank you enough.”

As soon as Cherri left, Husk wrenched his head from Alastor’s hand and yanked the flask from his coat pocket to wash away of the bitter taste of leather. “What the hell, Al? First you auction me off as a magician then you call me a gunsel?”

Alastor tucked his gloved hands back into his pockets, unfazed by the man’s brewing temper. “My, my! I didn’t peg you for the blatant bigot type. Often that’s reserved for men with a lower IQ than even you—which is frankly impressive!” 

A flush crept over Husk’s face. He dismissed it with another drink from his flask. “Stop toying with me.”

“Don’t fret, my dear. As terribly entertaining as your disposition is, serves its purpose,” Alastor said, leading him to the back of the warehouse as he spoke. 

Husk raised an eyebrow. “Whad’ya mean?”

“Our dearest Angelo catered more towards male clients. Which is evident by his interest in myself and dare I say his more _sensational_ attire.” Alastor paused at Husk’s blank stare. “Maybe some of the fine gentlemen we’re about to meet while have had him as a customer and know his pimp. Is that easy enough to understand, my cretinous companion?”

A muscle twitched in Husk’s jaw. “I’m going to shoot you.”

“Oh, darling. You’d be dead before you had the chance."

He knew better than to respond.

The back of the warehouse was not dissimilar to the rest. It still stank of the same smoke and was littered with round tables seating men dressed in ties and black flats. The only difference lay in those accompanying them. Men strung out in furs and feathers, others wearing clothes meant for dames, as the draped themselves over the laps of their clients or carried over drinks of their customer’s choosing. 

Alastor found an empty seat, quickly waving off a working boy as he attempted to cling onto him, and then motioned for Husk to squeeze in next to him with wide grin. 

Across from them, an older man with a tattered mustache and a pleased smirk presiding over his lips sent a glance their way. “I haven’t seen the two of you around here. You new?”

“Why, yes, my fine fellow! At least _I_ am.” Alastor gave Husk a playful slap on the shoulder. “But this dashing darling is a regular.”

Husk ground his teeth, his forced smile on the verge of snapping. “Yes… I am.”

The old man’s mouth twitched. “Ah, you must be that magician everyone’s been going on about.”

“They have—?” Husk’s grunt was quickly interrupted by a sharp elbow to the ribs from Alastor. “Of course they have… I’m the best damn magician in New Orleans.”

“Well?” The man said, clapping his hands together in excitement. He pulled a nearby waiter over his lap. “Go on then, show me what you got, sweetheart.”

Husk sent a pleading glance at Alastor. When no help came, he grunted and stood up, flexing his gloved fingertips and adjusting his top hat. Spotting the poker game splattered across the table, Husk picked up the cards. He wove them in and out of his fingers, spewing them from one hand to the next with the expertise of someone who’d wasted their lives on back house games of poker. 

It soon came apparent that Husk’s ease with a deck did not translate to any magical talent. 

"Uh, pick a card," Husk grunted, fanning out the deck. 

The man settled on one nestled in the middle. Alastor couldn't help but note the sudden drain of color from Husk's face as he stumbled to come up with his next move. Alastor leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. This would be amusing. 

"Aren't you gonna shuffle them or something?" The man grunted with growing impatience. 

"Gimme a moment," Husk snapped. He rearranged the deck, then, flipped a card on the top and slapped it face up onto the table with a smug grin. "Is this your card?" 

The man studied it, a line appeared between his brows. "No." 

Alastor had to cover his mouth to stop himself from bursting out in laughter. Husk, on the other hand, was fuming. 

"Screw this crap." Husk reached for the gun tucked in his belt. "Abracadabra, bitch."

"Please excuse my friend," Alastor grabbed Husk's wrist, nimble fingers untangling the gun from his grasp and returning it to his belt. "He's a bit out of practice."

"Out of practice?" The man across from them scoffs, shoving the escort off his lap and ripping the deck of cards out of Husk's still hands. "Out of practice? Your friend there is a greaseball, that's what he is."

Alastor had to yank Husk back down to keep him from strangling the man. "I'd have to agree with you there!"

Once Husk was seated again, glowering at the top hat on his lap, Alastor released his breath. "It's been a pleasure to meet you. Before my friend and I fly the coop, do mind if I ask a question?"

Slightly confused, he nodded. "If it gets _him_ out faster, then by all means, ask away."

"Wonderful!" Alastor rested his chin on his palm, grinning madly. "Have you ever been... serviced... by a flirtatious fellow with a pink furred jacket? Goes by the name Angelo?"

A roar of laughter sprung from the man's chest. "Who hasn't? Best night of my life for a few dollars! That boy sure knew how to take a good—“

 _”Ha! I do not need to know that._ But more importantly, my dear, do you know our heinous hooker's pimp?"

He paled. "You sound like good people. Even if one of you is a total twit," the man said with a sharp glare at Husk. "I'll do you a favor and tell you to get lost. You don't wanna mess with Angelo's people."

Alastor's smile stretched dangerously. Haunting, even to him. Like a wolf's jowls before a sinking in to its prey. "You mistake me, dear. I'm no good."

"No good? You'll be as good as dead if you don't drop your search now." The man swallowed when Alastor refused to back down. "It's your funeral, kid. The pimp's here today, per usual. You can find him up front where that little canary is singing on the stage. He's a big man, big glasses and a lot of fur."

Alastor stood up, smoothing out his vest and tucking his chair in behind him. "You've been quite the help, my dear. If I could be as bold as to ask the pimp's name?"

The old man pressed his lips together in a tight frown. Finally, he met Alastor's expectant gaze.

"Valentino. His name is Valentino."

"Valentino?" Alastor tasted the name, trying it out on his tongue. "Valentino. Well, my dear, it's about time we made a new friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote half of this on a plane. And now I know too much about prostitution in the 1930s... oh god.
> 
> ×××
> 
> Thank you for reading! I can't begin to tell you how much your Kudos and comments (and just every hit, to be honest) made me smile.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first fan fiction. I entirely blame my artist friend. There will be more to chapters because writing this was... a pleasure. See what I did there? Eh? It's okay... I'll close the door on my way out. 
> 
> _____
> 
> I chose to use Angelo as AngelDust's human name instead of Martin.  
> I know that that Martin used to be AngelDust's canon name, but was later confirmed by Vivziepop to be no longer the case. So, I've decided on Angelo... cause its italian and... well--Angel. 
> 
> I can't thank you enough for reading!


End file.
